STORY OF A BUTTERFLY GIRL

Once upon a time there was a little girl who loved butterflies very much. She wore brightly colored clothes and, when she spoke, she moved her small arms with such lightness that they looked like vibrant wings in flight. His gait also brought with it that lightness that only butterflies naturally possess. And like butterflies he loved flowers and took great care of them.
With his mother in spring he planted bulbs and seeds and waited patiently. His little brother, still small, watched amused.
He had become her little messy little helper! At the first warmth, a leaf appears, a slender cuff, the first flower, then many others, all beautiful in their shapes and shades of their colors. Soon many beautiful butterflies would also arrive!
And the little girl was delighted and remained enchanted for hours watching that spectacle of lightness, colors and perfumes. Sometimes it happened that a butterfly would rest on her hand and the little girl was almost breathless with emotion. It remained motionless to enjoy the beauty of those colored wings and the tickle of those curious paws.
One day his little brother got a bad flu and had to stay in bed for several days. The little girl was very sorry to see her little brother suffering and sad. Then he thought of a surprise that could brighten his days. It immediately occurred to her to prepare a short story about flowers and butterflies. While his little brother was dozing, he wrote a very sweet story and prepared a merry-go-round made with wood twigs tied together, to which he hung colorful butterflies made with tufts of his mother's carded wool. When the little brother opened his eyes after his afternoon nap, the baby was there, ready, next to him. She smiled at him and started reading his story. The little brother listened raptly, in silence, with sparkling eyes.
Eventually the little girl took the mobile and showed it to her little brother. Quick as a flash he took it with his little hands and began to play with it, moving the sticks to make all those beautiful butterflies flutter.
Soon the little brother was back to health and that mobile became the best

STORY OF A LITTLE DOLL

And he sees that that light comes from a doll, all broken, with the heart made of a light bulb .. and the puppet thinks, she will be my wife .. but when the doll approaches, her heart of wax melts.
How am I going to love you now that I no longer have a heart, the doll holds the heart in her arms .. and detaches the light bulb from her chest and says "if you love me one heart will be enough for both of us".

STORY OF A LITTLE BIRD

A little bird was about to freeze to death in the snow. It was freezing cold. He was almost done for. On his way a cow. He sees him, approaches, turns and poops on him. How disgusting you will say. the little bird.
Moral of the story: Not all the shit thrown at you is bad Sometimes it helps to save your life or ... To open your eyes!

STORY OF AN ORPHAN

I am not a person who shows his emotions. Rather I stay in a corner and try to hide as much as possible. And I don't want questions, or reproachful looks. I don't want anyone to see me and think that maybe I need more affection, a shoulder to cry on, an outlet. My depression has nothing to do with any of this. Anyway, hello doctor. I read your name among the papers of my adoption: unfortunately a bit complex name and I can't remember it. At 18, I asked my adoptive parents for all the papers, you know? I already had curiosity when I was thirteen but in those days I was doing too much trouble and my mother thought that overnight I would run away from home or find me hanged somewhere. He said that Satan was in me. She also wanted to take me to an exorcist, and most of the time I would send her to fuck or scream a curse, then I invented the excuse that the devil had possessed me. I had a great time.
When I had the adoption papers in my hand, I photocopied them all and searched the internet. Doctor, let's say that somehow you disappeared too because bho I couldn't find you. Then there was that fucking newspaper article, written in a language unknown to me, I remember reading my presumed name, maybe the name you decided to give me, you have a lot of creativity, you know. There was my name and yours, I just didn't understand everything else and there was an image of a little girl who looked just like me when I was about 9 years old. I wanted to track you down to thank you, for taking me off the street and taking me with you. Maybe it's also thanks to you that I got this thing of having to save and help people. When I tell about this part of my life, people are always sorry. And it may seem really sad, but every time I talk about it I always think of you doctor. You gave me a fresh start, I love being here, but I miss my mum and my dad too. I regret only this of my life. I would like to know if you know anything, if you have actually ever known them, if at least you can describe their eyes, their scent, their voice. Did you have this luck, doctor? You know which of the two I look the most like. I want to know if my mom remembers me, I want to know if she still loves me, because I have never stopped loving her and thinking about her, even if I don't remember her, even if I have suffered all my life for the emptiness she has left inside me. Tell me if she came looking for me somewhere. If she ran to your hospital to find out where I was. Tell me she got angry, that she really never wanted me to grow up on my own. I still feel I belong to that world and I hope to return soon, in that same street maybe where you found me, doctor. To be aware that it all started from there and to be able to live it peacefully, without tears. The thing I want most would be to see them from afar, perhaps holding hands and kissing in the streets of the market. I wish it were so. I couldn't tell her about my life, it was an obstacle course. Doctor, tell my parents I'm fine. Tell him that even if I haven't reached any milestones in my life for now, I will get to have more money, to do something I enjoy. Tell them I miss them so much.

Love, the little girl you picked up from the street.

MY FATHER AND A PEN

My father, from when he got up to when he went to bed, only opened his mouth to say nice things to someone, something and to the whole universe. If a pen dropped from his hands he was unable to get angry but it was said that it was necessary. I am giving this example because the majority of people today are not at this point. They are like immature and grumpy parrots, they keep repeating how the world is falling apart and do not understand that they are supporting it as well. All they do is talk, shout, feed and get angry. If you know chronically irrecoverable people and can’t get away from their shit, look for any solution to recharge yourself. It is no longer time to reach out to them with empathy and understanding. What hangs over everyone’s heads is a much heavier test than the shit that others drag around and continually throw up on others. Today we need the utmost clarity and inner consistency to face the game. Remain silent and reflect on your situation. Do something but no need to scream. Doing something for others is a silent and beautiful action. These angry people suck the lifeblood no matter if they are aware of it or not. Raising the defenses, not just immunity, is a sacrosanct right that belongs to you and which you must take note of. Anger is contagious and therefore we must detach ourselves from those people who have hatred for everyone and everything. (I am referring to the anger of the dull, not to a physiologically normal emotion)

STORY OF AN EMPTY CART

I was walking with my father, when suddenly he stopped at a bend and after a short silence I wonder: "Besides the song of the sparrows, do you hear anything else?" I pricked my ears and after a few seconds I replied: "The noise of a cart". “Right - he told me. And an empty cart ". I asked him: "How do you know it's an empty cart if you haven't seen it yet?" He replied: "It's easy to understand when a cart is empty, since the more empty it is, the more noise it makes". I became an adult and even today when I see a person who talks too much, interrupts the conversation of others, is intrusive, boasts of the talents he thinks he has, is bossy and thinks he can do without others, I have the impression of listening to the voice of my father who says: "The more the cart is empty, the more it makes noise"

STORY OF A CLOSED MOUTH

There is a person, alone, leaning against a window overlooking the world, he looks but has his eyes closed, he is unable to see. He hears all the noises in the world: cars that run, children who laugh, those who cry, adults who fight, what they love. The leaves that move resting on the wind, the clouds that move, the water that flows in the rivers, which ends up in the seas, in the puddles, down the gutters. He hears everything but cannot hear. He answers everything but is unable to speak. He would like to touch everything but is unable to move out of that window. There is this person who is desperate, but does not want to cross that fine line. Every day he looks, listens, answers. After months she starts crying every night, she was missing something that could not exist for her. Standing on the windowsill he screams, but no one can hear, because he cannot speak. He decides to go up on that windowsill every day, to make his voice heard. And scream, scream, scream. Then one afternoon he freezes with his mouth ajar and whispers. "Is it I who cannot speak, or the others who are unable to listen to me?" The closed mouth, a weight in the void, the hair resting on the wind, the clouds move. Then there is the land, a lot of land. Above, below, everywhere. Its branches sway, the leaves dance forced by the force of the wind, the roots are well planted up to the center of the earth. Every day he listens to the birds singing, the squirrels chasing each other, the clouds that move, the water that flows in the rivers, which ends up in the seas, in the puddles, down the gutters. Children laugh, others cry sometimes. Some adults kiss there, in the shade of her hair. The answer comes like a blizzard. It is others who are unable to listen.

DEAR DAD

Dear Dad,
I am writing to tell you that I have grown up.
I know that now you will think "it is normal that you have grown up", but I am talking to you about growing up without you. So I start again:
Dear Dad,
I wanted to tell you that I grew up, even without you. Growing up without you is not growing like others grow up, growing up without you means sweating, it means watching a sunset and being sad, it means feeling stupid because at night you talk to yourself, because you hope someone hears you. You are my someone, but hoping hurts too much when I beg you to come back. Growing up without you means loving different, it means loving wrong. Yes dad, that's right. The absence of your love in my life has turned my heart into a boulder. And I'm not saying it just for effect. I haven't been able to love since I lost you, because watching you go was so painful that I no longer have the courage to let myself go. I don't want to relive a pain like that.
I wanted to tell you that I grew up, but that I wanted to see myself grow up with you. And you? Have you ever thought of me? Did you feel like kissing my forehead? To touch my hands? To sit at the table on Sunday? You should try the chicken cacciatore that mom makes ... It's really special. We eat a lot of it and then we compete to see who finishes first, so we take what is left. We often fight over this and if you only knew how much we laugh at each other. Maybe if you were there there would still be no chicken left in the pan, maybe the dishes would be right […] I wanted to tell you that I grew up, even without you. And I would like to show you how much my face has changed. I look a lot like you, the square jaw, the huge smile and the straight teeth. Besides, I like wine, like you.
I grew up but I still can't tell about us, I can't admit that I know what I'm missing. I can't say it out loud. The other day my mother and I had a fight, she said I don't open up to her, that I don't trust her because I never cry. He said "talk to me, tell me it still hurts too much." But I didn't answer her. I didn't even have the strength to look at her, but I felt her dead eyes on me. "I'm sorry you came across it." And he wept. In front of us he always tries to resist, but punctually cries a lot. She really can't do it. She is not afraid to cry, she is not ashamed to be seen. You were his great love, and his great pain. And now if he smiles, he smiles differently. This to God I will never forgive him.
… You really didn't have to go away.
I always listen to your favourite song to feel you with me every day. 

STORY OF NUVOLA FRESCA

Long before the white man arrived,
in a Cheyenne village lived a little girl whose
name was Nuvola Fresca.
One day the little girl said to her mother, Last Evening Sigh: "When night falls, a black bird often comes to feed, pecks at pieces of my body and eats me until you arrive, light as the wind and chase it away.
 But I don't understand what all this is.
With great maternal love Last Sigh Of the evening reassured the little girl by saying: "the things you see at night are called dreams and the black bird that comes is only a shadow that comes to save you" Nuvola Fresca replied:
"But I am so afraid, I would like to see only the white shadows that are good".
Then the wise mother, she knew it would be cruel to close the door to the fear of her child, invented a round canvas with which to fish the dreams of the night, then gave the object a magical power: to recognize good dreams, that is, those useful for growth. spirituality of the little one, from the bad ones, that is, false and deceptive.
Last Sigh of the Evening built many dream catchers and hung them on the cradles of the children of the village.
As the children grew, they embellished theirs with expensive objects and gradually the magical power grew, grew, grew together with them ... Each Cheyenne keeps its own dream catcher for life, as a sacred object bearer of strength and wisdom.
Even today the Cheyenne Indians build a dream catcher every time a child is born in the village and place it on his cradle. With a special wood, very ductile, they shape a circle, which represents the universe and inside it a web similar to that of a spider. The cobweb will therefore be entrusted with the task of capturing dreams. If it is a question of positive dreams, the dream catcher will entrust them to the thread of the beads (forces of nature) and make them come true. If, on the other hand, he judges them negative, he will entrust them to the feathers of a bird and have them carried away far away, scattering them in the skies.

STORY OF A GRANDMOTHER

"Grandma, I can't stand a person."

"Bless her, my child. Because she is showing you parts of yourself that you cannot accept. You see them reflected in her. They hurt you, like blades entering your depth, because it is the only way to attract your attention. Thanks to you can see that person and integrate them into you. "

"Should I bless those who can't stand?"

"That's right! Everything that happens outside of you is a mirror of your inner self. It is showing you the way to enrich yourself more and more. Change your way of thinking about life. Fly high with your mind: look for the symbol, the meaning that your emotion has come to carry you, begin to see every person you meet in your path as a reflection of parts of you. Don't waste time on stupid complaints, superficial chatter and the usual prejudices. You have a treasure to find. Every time. your energies in this great task! "

"What an effort, grandmother ..."

"It is more tiring to stop complaining. And carry it like a burden, day after day. It immobilizes you, takes away precious energy, hinders you. Become a hunter of meaning. Go beyond people, facts, news."

"I do not know how to do it..."

"There is only one teacher who can guide you in this. You will never find it outside of you. It is your feeling. Your annoyance, your well-being, your anger ... are messengers of your Truth."

"And how do I integrate the parts of me that I don't welcome?"

"Respect what you feel, celebrate it, lift it up. Every emotion is sacred: if you can glimpse even a minimum of richness, the rest will come by itself. You will have new eyes, able to see beyond any wall. They are the eyes of your soul. ! "

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